


She does

by darkrogue1 (Lily_Haydee_Lohdisse)



Series: Hear the Nightingale's Song [5]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Compulsion/seducere, Dream Sharing, Gen, M/M, Masturbation, Molly cuddling, Other, does that count as Mollycoddling?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-24 14:31:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13215762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lily_Haydee_Lohdisse/pseuds/darkrogue1
Summary: Thomas Nightingale needs. Molly does. Wherefore the rumors came then. How history repeats itself.





	1. Then

Lazily, Nightingale let himself drift from the realms of dream back to reality, enjoying the warmth and comfort of his bed. Today was a Sunday, there was no hurry to get up, no mission, no lessons to attend, no morning practice; the last day of the week at the Folly was left free for personal pursuits.  
  
As he woke he let himself enjoy the morning remains of his nightly yearnings, secure in the knowledge that in the privacy of his own room he wouldn't be disturbed - least of all on a Sunday morning. Languidly but surely he let his hands work their magic, revelling in the fact that their practiced handling answered best to what he liked and let his mind wander to fantasies of unattainable peers and colleagues.  
  
For those forbidden longings, in this world where any level of physical interaction between friends was safe as long as it didn't dwell in the domain of lust - and even so then less and less as it seemed -, it was best to deal in solitude than risk reaching out to a person of reactions unknown.  
  
So, soon, sating his desires to a discrete if deeply pleasuring rapture, he let himself be swept away from this worldly worries to the realm of mythical satisfaction, the one that inspired artists to represent the saints communing with the divine, the one French writers represented with a description of his namesake's song to avoid the censure.  
  
He didn't remain long in bed after that. Physical satisfaction was one thing, for which the Folly's sleeping arrangements were convenient, but for the rest he deeply regretted the past. The wild affections of his family and numerous siblings, the carefree interactions of young pupils at Casterbrook, and even as years passed and a quainter attitude worked its way throughout the students body and casual handling gradually disappeared, there always had been rugby to procure him a much needed physical presence. He yearned for human contact.  
  
Sometimes he wondered if he should find a substitute, maybe look for some sort of socially acceptable physical activities. In the meantime he did with what he had - friends, comrades, and peers.  
  
Nightingale didn't make his bed, only cleaned up and dressed, and prepared to make his way to breakfast.  
  
As he opened the door, he feared he would suffer a heart attack from the eerie figure standing in the corridor, right on his doorstep.  
  
"Good gods, Molly!" He exclaimed, taking an involuntary step back and raising a hand to press against his chest where he could feel his heart beating like a drum. "What are you doing here?"  
  
Her eyes were certainly amused as she looked at him, she liked catching people unawares and enjoyed their various scared expressions. Molly, as Nightingale had quickly learned, was not anything like the rest of the Folly's inhabitants. Well, he wasn't entirely either, and he liked to think they got on rather well, even if property should dictate they live in different worlds, respectively up and below stairs. Well, his own belonging upstairs was shabby at best, and he didn't like to dwell on those distinctions.  
  
Suddenly, watching Molly's mirth he remembered his previous activities and the Masters comments 'She does whatever needs doing', and felt horror raise his hair.  
  
"You felt that?" He squeeked more than asked, feeling ready to disappear into the ground so much he was embarrassed. "Don't tell me you thought you ought..." He interrupted himself as an even more horrific thought occurred to him. "Oh, gods! Tell me the others don't ask that of you!"  
  
She hissed in deep laughter, dispelling his worries. Of course, only he should come to such a conclusion. Everyone was too frightened of the supernatural maid to ever think of her as a potential partner.  
  
"That's a relief," he said, "to know you are not taken advantage off. Still..." He squirmed as he explained, self-conscious of his youthful excess energy and expression thereof, and above all not wanting to offend a person he considered as a friend. "...I'm sorry, but I don't think... I... you wouldn't do for me... not that I don't like you, I do! But..." He looked around to make sure they were alone, and very softly added his very first confession. "Women don't do it for me, Molly."  
  
She acknowledged very seriously the confidence he told her and the level of trust that implied, but here eyes were gleaming with repressed mirth, and that distracted him entirely from the turn the conversation had taken.  
  
"Oh." He said, relieved. "So that's not it either. Good. I'm sorry, but... good." His posture turned thoughtful and he tried to understand why else Molly could be here. But it didn't come to him, so he asked. "So, if this is not meant to be an indecent proposal, why have you come to my door this early in the morning?"  
  
Molly's smile turned fond, and she opened her arms.  
  
"Oh." Nightingale said, surprised. But of course her meaning was clear, and he _had_ been needing, and he was very grateful. " _People's_ contact."  
  
He stepped into her arms, reaching around her, and let himself be enfolded in her welcoming embrace.  
  
After a while, he asked, his head just over her shoulder. "Do you need hugs too, sometimes? Because if you do, don't ever hesitate to come to me."  
  
She pushed him away for him to look at her. "You don't need hugs then? What do you need?"  
  
The way she opened her hand was very clear as well. He nodded and raised both hands, opening one first, then the other.

"Like this?" He asked, both werelights lighting the hall and litting a lively reflected gleaming in her eyes. She smiled and reached with her arms around him, and he enclosed her in his arms, reciprocating with a magical embrace.

  
\-------------

  
As bad luck had it, of course, they were discovered then. And between their compromising closeness and the state of his bedding, he had be in for quite a suspicion and berating. But he could truthfully swear whatever oath they needed that he _hadn't_ been laying with her, and he only got off with a lecture on magical's folks and fairies dangerous attraction.  
  
And of course, after that, they took the earliest opportunity to send him far away from the Folly.  
  
Well. So it was. But he still came back from time to time, at least for Christmas, and that suited them both well enough, really.


	2. Now

Thomas Nightingale wants. Some days are worse than others, and today seems to be one of those days. He longs for Peter Grant, the young man who has him under his spell, quite literally ever since the infortunate event with the _lacuna_. Well, if he is honest with himself, Nightingale has to admit he had been under Peter's charm from the start. Unfortunately, Peter is his apprentice now. At times like those, Nightingale sometimes regret ever making that oath, he feels his blood burn with need, it is near unbearable when Peter is calling.  
  
Peter calls in his dreams, he calls to the people he lusts after. That much is nothing new. The first time it happened, Nightingale had been surprised, and flattered. He had scoffed at seeing his new apprentice between the two ladies, had frozen them all in place and escaped the dream by waking up, a wondering smile on his lips. Now, removing himself from that dream and escaping the calling becomes harder each time and leaves him wanting, burning.   
  
After a while, Peter had started resisting to him influencing the dreams, freezing him wouldn't work anymore. So now Nightingale turns himself invisible and puts Beverley and Lesley to sleep. This seems to be distracting Peter just enough for his magical attraction to fade, and so Nightingale may wake up. Today, he almost didn't want to.   
  
He needs and burns, and as he wakes, Nightingale masturbates to the thoughts of his apprentice. He imagines the way his lips would feel on his, the warm skin under his hands. He longs to hear the young man's voice breathing his name in his ear - a name he has never heard Peter utter. He tries to guess the taste of Peter's skin, were he to nip along his neck, thinks of the hand enfolding him as of Peter's and not his own.  
  
He comes, shuddering, panting, as broken as ever. The burning in his veins recedes, but doesn't disappear. It is bearable though. He _has_ to bear it, for a while longer at least. He won't last ten whole years, he knows it, but for Peter's sake he tries to delay the inevitable.  
  
How empty his room feels - Peter is not in it. Nightingale rises as usual. He doesn't like to dwell on those dreams and feelings, on those dangerous thoughts. He has to face his apprentice every day! Slowly he washes and dresses, putting on layers of cloth as a piece of armour each. Today he will need the full set of formal dress to remind himself to behave.  
  
As he opens the door, ready to go down to breakfast, he starts in surprise and alarm, the feeling taking him back some ninety years earlier. The corridor has changed, this is not the same room, but still the situation is close enough to make his heart race as it did then. Molly is waiting on his doorstep again.  
  
"Good gods, Molly!" He exclaims, taking half a step back and his hand twitching. He sighs and frowns. "Is it that bad, then?"  
  
She just looks at him. "I'm sorry. I know you worry."  
  
Her eyes dart to the side along the corridor, and Nightingale has to smile. "No, thank you, that's quite all right." He tries not to imagine Peter's face if Molly came to abduct him in his room to bring him to Nightingale's own bed. "If it comes to that, I'm sure I'll think of something."  
  
She takes a step forward then and with the practiced ease of long years spent together, he meets her halfway and steps in her embrace, both his hands lighting in a werelight right as he reaches around to hug her in return.  
  
Safe in her arms he gathers strength anew. "Thank you." He whispers quietly as she comforts him.  
  
After a while, he feels better. Sitting down at breakfast, he removes his blazer, unbuttons his collar. It will be enough today, in the end. He still can feel the warmth of Molly's capable hug. Such a gentle power, a loving protection.


End file.
